Boot Daggers and Memories
by Gargoyle13
Summary: Thinking on boot dagger preferences of his brethren brings back a harsh memory for one of the Knights. Pre-movie. Focus is characters from legend with some small appearances by movie crew. Rated for language and possible disturbing imagery.


**Disclaimer:** I am not receiving anything for this. Technically they are not mine – they belong to legend but I have done some creative twisting of character to suit my own vision.

**A/N:** Trying to get the muse back and I don't know where this came from or how good it is. It just came so I went with it. It isn't a part of anything or at least nothing I am aware of as of yet. Some mentions of movie Knights but mostly my own crew. They are all one big happy (?) group serving Rome – fairly young still in terms of battle/life experience. Pre-movie. Rating for language and for some potentially disturbing images/descriptions.

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><p>Bedwyr stepped into the forge and looked around. It was uncharacteristically silent but he was fine with that; silence was what he craved after the cluster muck tonight's briefing had turned into with everyone shouting opinions about the latest edicts from Rome. Rolling his eyes with a sigh and a shake of his head, his gaze fell upon the table that displayed all the knives and daggers for purchase. His brother and owner of the forge, Pelleas, always kept a good supply ready to be sold because as he often said, one just never knew when the need or urge for another dagger would strike.<p>

Laughing slightly, Beds made his way to the table and took in the sight of all the skillfully crafted, finely sharpened blades. Beds' mind began to drift much as his eyes drifted up and down the neatly arranged rows of knives – precisely laid out in size, from the largest, thickest hunting knife to a blade small enough to be cunningly hidden, well, Beds didn't quite know where the more imaginative fort dwellers might find to hide it, but he was certain the most nefarious could find places. But boot daggers were only ever meant to be a last resort – the 'oh shit I am in trouble and about to die unless I pull a weapon out of my boot/ass' sort of thing. The daggers should be, as the Knights were taught among their first lessons, blades that are small and lethal; something for sticking into the side of a neck, or into an eye, or into the bridge of the nose for an instant kill – or, at the very least, enough to do some damage while you got away. Nevertheless, as the young conscripts had quickly found out, personal preference overruled any suggestion and dictated what was strapped to one's boot.

He snorted – the boot dagger preferences of his brethren were as diverse as the group of men. Gawain and Bors both favoured daggers that were, in all honesty, hunting knives and not even close to being boot daggers though both swore up and down and sideways that they were not hunting knives. Usually this happened just before they launched into some sort of discussion about the "gifts the gods had given them" and why that meant they needed larger boot daggers than the average Knight. The brothers – Mordred and Agravaine – utilized daggers that were slightly oversized but not nearly as much so as the aforementioned two. The thing about them was that each brother carried two daggers, which made sense when one reflected on their propensity for being in the thick of battle and more often than not leaving a dagger buried in some hapless Woad along the way. Kay and Dagonet preferred blades that were slightly longer and thinner, though theirs were used less for defense and more for those on-the-spot surgical procedures that seemed to crop up unexpectedly whenever they were around. Tristan…he preferred a boot dagger that was long, flexible, and deadly – much like the Scout himself. It was a well-balanced piece that exuded effortless lethality…again, much like the Scout himself. The rest of the brethren, including Beds himself, were fairly mundane and stuck to the classic versions – nothing fancy, just something to save your ass in a time of need that was easy enough to replace when lost upon the battlefield.

Skimming his hand over the tops of the handles, Beds had to admit that out of all the weapons he possessed, losing his boot dagger was probably the least likely to cause him any amount of upset. Now his sword, that was another matter entirely. As was his hunting knife. Or the duo of daggers that he strapped at the small of his back. If any of those went missing, as surely as Galahad would be puking after a night of drinking, Bedwyr would be scouring that battle field until the lost weapon was found and safely in his possession again. Pausing, he picked up a dagger that caught his eye and turned it over in his hand, feeling the weight and balance of it as well as how well it conformed to his hand when he tightened his grip. Sighing Bedwyr realized he was going to be making a purchase after all as he snorted knowing the "brotherly discount" really only meant that the initial haggling price was set slightly lower for Beds than for anyone else. And he knew it was only very slightly lower…if at all.

Sighing again, Beds turned toward the back room that served as an office of sorts when a very small blade almost tucked away at the end of the line caught his attention. It was tiny – almost the size that a child would wield… Green eyes closed and though he gritted his teeth with the effort, Beds was not fast enough to will away the memory of why it was Pelleas was now forge owner instead of a Knight.

_**XXXXXXX**_

_**Approximately six years earlier…**_

"For the love of…exactly how fucking long do you need to take a godsdamn piss?" Beds snapped furiously – but quietly – before he turned and glared at his older brother, motioning for the blonde to hurry up. He was fairly certain after three days on patrol there was no Woad war party as the paranoid Roman estate owner had reported but that did not mean he wanted to find out if there were any Woads lurking about.

"It has a long way to travel…takes a bit of time, though you would have no idea what that is like…and it is not fond of being told to hurry…again something you would have no idea about…" Pelleas glared at his brother's back as the younger stalked away then chuckled with a shake of his head. In all honesty, he wasn't sure it was just a piss he now had to take thanks to the so-called breakfast Mordred had inflicted upon them.

Biting his tongue to keep from yelling at Pelleas to stop being so annoying, Beds was regretting having not taken the split with Agravaine, thereby sticking Mordred with the Knight who was currently rustling about in the underbrush. Mordred would have deserved it; whatever that concoction had been that he had loosely termed breakfast was threatening to make a return appearance. Walking to the closest tree, Beds slowly counted in every language he knew as he banged his forehead against the rough bark just to keep from throwing himself at his brother and beating him senseless.

Spinning on his heel, Beds leaned against the tree, folded his arms over his chest and stared malevolently in the direction his brother was supposedly relieving himself…or at least he better be by now. "Pelleas…are you by any chance possibly fucking done while it is light and we can…" Beds did not get to finish his thought before the blood curdling scream of his older sibling reached his ears.

Pushing off the tree with his foot, Bedwyr catapulted himself forward, unsheathing the daggers tucked in the small of his back as he ran toward where he had left Pelleas just a few moments earlier. Jumping over small rocks and exposed tree roots, Beds slid to a halt with a snarl and his daggers at the ready for whatever he faced… Squinting he made out what looked to be a very small person – a child ? – fleeing down a footpath thru the grass but as he stepped forward to try to see better, he felt Pelleas' hand grab hold of the top of his boot. Looking down, Beds' breath caught in his throat…and luckily so did the vomit…when he met his brother's upturned face. Pelleas' left eye was, for all intents and purposes, gone. There were still small bits hanging onto the strands of whatever hung like wet grass from the space where the eye should have been, but the eyeball itself was no more.

Bedwyr did not have time to think before the brothers burst through the growth, having not gotten too far along their way before they heard Pelleas' scream. They paused long enough to look down at the Knight upon his knees, blood gushing from where his eye should have been to Bedwyr's pale countenance before Agravaine growled that they were wasting time. Mordred's nod became a snarl when Agravaine kicked his horse, shouting over his shoulder that the filthy Woad had stopped and he was going to take care of this… Snapping a short response at his brother who had taken off in pursuit, Mordred pulled a wad of linen from his saddle bag, thrust it into Beds' hand and quietly told Beds to get Pelleas back to the fort – that he and Agravaine would see to this before he kicked his horse hard, racing down the footpath after his brother and Pelleas' attacker.

"Bedwyr…"

"Pelleas…just…just shut your mouth…" Beds stammered and shook his head as he bent down to help his brother to his feet, trying hard to avoid looking him in the face.

"Beds…just give me a moment…I need to see…" Pelleas reached up to try to wipe at the blood he figured was clouding his vision only to have his brother smack his hand away then press the linen scrap against his face.

"Do not do that…just shut your fucking mouth and move, godsdamnit!" Beds snapped and tightened his grip on his brother's arm, pulling him in the direction of their horses, hoping and praying the animals would not spook too badly at the sight. He was thankful when Pelleas did not try to resist again, instead letting Beds push and shove him onto his mount before Beds took to his own saddle and, grabbing Pelleas' reins as well, kicked his horse as hard as he could in the direction of the fort.

It did not register until much later with Bedwyr that throughout the entire ride back, Pelleas did not utter a word. No inane queries. No complaints. Not one single word.

They sped into the fort like an entire war party was on their heels. Bors had spied them approaching at breakneck speed; when they got closer he saw Pelleas slumped in the saddle and could faintly make out Bedwyr's shouts for either Kay or Dagonet. Everyone who saw would later testify that they had never, ever, seen Bors move so quickly as he did that afternoon as he sprinted ahead bellowing for both healers.

Bedwyr reined the horses in hard, stopping them not far from where Kay and Dagonet had appeared. He noted the healers traded looks before Dag said something that made Kay nod in agreement and rush off while Dag approached Pelleas.

"Come on, Pelleas… Put your hand on my shoulder so I can help you off your horse…" Dag spoke calmly as he looked from Pelleas to Beds then back to the blonde Knight who was slowly and silently doing as he had been instructed. Once he was off the horse, Dag wrapped an arm around Pelleas' waist and guided him toward the barracks.

"Gettin' off yer horse there, Beds or you plannin' to wait for the poor animal to simply collapse and throw yer ass off…?" Bors looked up at the dark-haired Knight whose attention snapped from watching his brother being led away to the stocky pugilist. Realizing Beds was still not moving Bors leaned in and spoke quietly. "Get off yer horse and go after yer brother…I will take care of the rest…" He watched as Beds finally slid off his horse while Bors jerked his head in the direction Dag had taken Pelleas.

Beds barely registered the whispered 'go on now' from Bors as he slipped past him with a nod before breaking into a sprint toward the barracks. He wasn't quite certain what use he would be to the healers when he had very nearly lost the contents of his stomach earlier, but he knew he had to at least be there…

A few hours later found Bedwyr bent over, leaning on a small wall, heaving his guts until he shuddered while vile, hollow noises scratched his throat. Dagonet dried his hands on a rag as he watched and listened before glancing at Kay who shrugged and shook his head. Smirking, Dag turned and went back in with a gesture Kay understood meant he would put on some water to boil and steep some tea to try to calm Bedwyr's stomach…and nerves.

Kay's lips twitched as Beds turned and looked up at the slightly smaller Knight perched on a segment of wall a short distance away. "Done?"

Scowling, Bedwyr pushed a long braid back and took a few deep breaths before nodding ever so slightly and slowly – very slowly – making his way to an upright stance. He did not want to risk making any sudden move that would cause his stomach more unhappiness. "How…" Beds paused as his voice sounded hoarse in his ears and the scenery around him spun just a little, which made him grip the top of the wall tightly.

"How…what…? How does Galahad puke like that on a regular basis? How much more can you puke before you stop wishing you were dead and actually die? There are so many possible things that could be asked beginning with 'how'…" Kay shrugged and snorted back a laugh at the dark look from his very good friend.

"Nay…" Beds stopped again and licked his lips before speaking quietly. "How do you do it? How does Dag do it?" Snorting and closing his eyes, Beds shook long, dark, putrid smelling tangles. "I do not know how I managed to not puke when I first saw him…but to do what you two did – clean out and stitch…" Beds' voice trailed off as he studied the Knight who had hopped off the wall and now stood next to him.

"We do it because we must. Because we would not see our brothers at the mercy of the Roman surgeons – left to bleed to death so they could tend some poor Roman with a stubbed toe." Kay shrugged and studied his hands. "Just as you did what you had to out there…" He gestured toward the expanse of forest just beyond the fort. Clasping Beds' shoulder, Kay nodded toward the barracks. "Come…let us go enjoy the peace and quiet while Pelleas is rendered unconscious…and get you some tea before you puke…again…" Kay laughed and slipped his arm over his friend's shoulders as Beds growled softly but let Kay lead him inside.

Mordred and Agravaine had returned later that evening, both smeared with the telltale crimson and grime that spoke of battle. They confirmed for Arthur in reports that there had indeed been a Woad encampment but nothing even close to the rampaging war party that the Roman estate owner had screeched about. Of course, 'had' was the key word in their report as they also confirmed that the Woads had been dealt with and Arthur should feel confident sending word to the estate owner that not only had the intruders been dealt with but also that the owner should not expect any such intrusions in the future. After the official reports concluded, the two behemoths confirmed that it had not been a full war party but most likely part of a tribe migrating as the weather changed, though now it mattered not since every last Woad in that encampment was dead.

Days went by while Kay and Dagonet watched over Pelleas' wound, changing bandages and making certain no infection settled in. Bedwyr stopped by as often as he could – or as often as he could bring himself to especially given Pelleas' grouchy mood, though none could truly blame him. As Bors had put it, Pelleas had every right to be angry since he'd simply gone to take a right piss not figuring on having some Woad jump outta the underbrush while he had his hands full with handling things down there.

Meanwhile, there was also much debate occurring in briefings and over tankards as to what should become of "one-eyed Pelleas". The general consensus among the brethren was that he ought to retire; that Arthur should grant an early release from his obligation to Rome, though deep down each one of them both dreaded and envied the thought of Pelleas being retired with more time on his hands than he knew how to fill. Finally, it was Arthur who decreed that once Pelleas was declared well enough, he should be tested – or, rather, his skills should be tested to see if the loss of his eye would impair his ability to serve. Somehow, it had fallen upon Bedwyr to bring the news of proving his skills to Pelleas' ears…

"What do you fucking mean I have to prove myself? Am I somehow no longer a Knight? The loss of my eye has turned me into to some mewling babe suckling at his mother's tits?" Before Beds could answer, Pelleas continued his tirade. "Those godsdamned ungrateful backstabbing sons-of-bitches. How dare they question my ability? Even with one eye – which I do have another that works just fine you know…" He pointed from the bandage that covered the empty socket on the left to the one on the right that held a blazing blue orb. "Prove my skills? How fucking dare they think that just because I only have one eye that I could not…those lousy, filthy bastards… Why I could fucking fight them all right now – right fucking now, I tell you – and beat them senseless. Who do they think they are to question me? To doubt me? Prove my skills indeed… I will fucking beat them so badly their father's asses back in Sarmatia will sting from the whipping I will put on them… And that Roman mongrel half-wit who fancies himself to be a commander…"

Bedwyr groaned and slumped in the chair, tuning out his brother's words while he wondered what he had done that had pissed Arthur off so badly that he felt the need to punish Beds like this. Hadn't he stepped up and taken on most of his brother's duties while Pelleas' ass lay in bed recuperating? And this was how Arthur was repaying him? With a shake of his head, Beds finally snapped. "Would you shut up? Just shut your godsdamned loud mouth. Arthur has spoken and the brethren have agreed and this is the way it is. The fact of the matter is that you do only have one eye and it is not a spare as have asserted to Dag and Kay and anyone else who would listen to your idiocy…and it just may impact your ability to perform your duty as a Knight... If it turns out that it does not impede your fine abilities then you get to be assigned guard duty or patrol…though goddess help whoever is assigned with you and I do so hope for your sake it is not me because the first time you bitch about your duty or the cold or the rain or the sun, I swear on our blood that I will fucking skewer you myself…" Beds finished shouting at his brother and stormed out, slamming the door behind him and stalking past a wide-eyed Gareth and amused looking Gaheris in the hall before striding across the fort, snarling and spitting about his stupid assed brother.

No one was certain if Pelleas was fully healed or if both Dag and Kay simply tired of listening to him moan, but within another cycle of the moon Pelleas was declared ready for whatever tests of skills Arthur deemed necessary as proof Pelleas was still fit to serve as a Knight. Secretly, Bedwyr was anxious about how the tests would turn out; he was not certain what Pelleas would do if he was declared not fit for service. More to the point, Bedwyr's stomach was knotted because he had never been on a battlefield without his older brother…without someone of his own blood watching his back…and the prospect of that frightened Bedwyr just a tiny bit.

The first test that Arthur set forth was archery. Tristan was to test Pelleas on that particular skill and report back to Arthur his observations. Beds watched the two Knights make their way to the trees where Tristan had set up some targets. He waited…the longer it took, the more his stomach worked itself into knots. Everyone knew Tristan was not a man given to idle chit-chat and, in fact, it had been years since Tristan had been sent on patrol with Pelleas for that very reason… Sighing, Bedwyr leaned against the wall of the stables and comforted himself with the thought that at least there had not been any blood curdling screaming of someone being shot with an arrow…which had to be a good sign. Although, given that it was Tristan, it could also mean that Tris had simply gotten so fed up that he had just quietly killed Pelleas. Bedwyr was pondering how terrible that would be in the overall scheme of things when he spied Tristan approaching. Catching golden orbs, he lifted his chin knowing Tris would understand the unspoken inquiry. Beds felt his stomach sink when there was a slow blink followed by a shake of tousled locks. Pelleas had failed the archery test.

A few days later, Arthur set forth that Pelleas would face a test of sword skill…against Mordred. Beds had felt his stomach sink yet again. On a good day, with two functional eyes, there were few among them who would not be hard-pressed to best the older of the two brothers. Mordred was skilled as any with the sword, but what set him (and his brother, truthfully) was his raw, brute strength as well as a well-developed opportunistic streak. At least for this one, Beds knew he could hide and watch – see the results firsthand. By the time it was over, Bedwyr wished he had not stayed. Things had gone so poorly that Pelleas had resorted to wildly chasing after Mordred, who had simply needed to stay just to Pelleas' blind side – something that would never be passable on a battlefield. Beds had watched as Mordred exited the arena, shoulders slumped knowing his words would be the final damnation of Pelleas' service before he slowly headed toward Arthur's chambers to report the results.

"I am finished…" Pelleas snorted as Bedwyr jumped at the sound of his brother's voice behind him. "I cannot shoot an arrow straight and I cannot…if my opponent enters my blind spot…" Pelleas sighed and shook his head. "Even if somehow Arthur looked beyond all that, I could not put them at risk…could not put you at risk…" Pelleas sighed again and clasped his brother's shoulder tightly before releasing it and patting his back. "You will have to look out for yourself from now forward, baby brother…I will not be there to save your incompetent ass…" With a snort Pelleas set off for the barracks, leaving Bedwyr standing silently watching his brother's retreating form.

No one had been surprised when at that evening's briefing Arthur had announced that by the power vested in him by Rome herself, he was commuting Pelleas' years of service and granting him a full release from his duties and obligations to Rome. Of course, all the brethren had cared about was that Pelleas was now free of the shackles of duty…and, well, the drinking that had followed the announcement honestly.

_**XXXXXXX**_

Beds shook his head as he came back to the present. It had taken many months but eventually things had settled into a new rhythm that, in all truth, was not that much different from the previous rhythm. The sun rose; the sun set. Patrols and guard duty went on as before; it was just that everyone's turn came up a little sooner in the rota. All was not lost on the battlefield because they had one less Knight to depend upon; as always seemed to happen, others stepped in and took up the slack. Life went on for everyone, including Pelleas.

Snorting, Bedwyr shook his head and rolled his eyes when he heard the faint voices of his twin nephews growing louder and, from the sounds of it, he guessed that they were headed straight toward the forge. Indeed, out of the tragedy of losing his eye, Pelleas had carved out a life – and it was a good life. Eventual ownership of the forge. Twin sons. A wife. Beds wrinkled his nose as he considered the last on the list, knowing that might be the only smear on an otherwise seemingly good life. He did not have long to ponder that thought after the doors creaked open and his nephews were instantly upon him chasing away memories with their laughter and demands for him to play.


End file.
